


Honour Among Thieves

by linndechir



Category: The Hateful Eight (2015)
Genre: Bloodplay, Hand Jobs, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Chris Mannix is very good at talking bullshit, and Marquis almost likes listening to it under the right circumstances. But there are some things they both know not to talk about.





	Honour Among Thieves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PositivelyVexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivelyVexed/gifts).



“Now that is exactly what I’m telling you. _The_ Major Marquis Warren. Hidin’ up in that cabin by the woods all by himself. Yes, the one that burnt down the prison camp in Wellenbeck, West Virginia, killing dozens and dozens of white men – Southern _and_ Northern, I might add –, and got away with it. The one who keeps slipping through the fingers of every goddamn bounty hunter sent after him, on account of him shooting them dead every single time. That very same Major Marquis Warren.”

Marquis lowered his head further and smiled into his scarf. There was something so satisfying about hearing his exploits related by someone else, and that tone in Chris Mannix’s voice only made it more entertaining. It had already been there the first time Marquis had heard him tell the story – in that coach with John Ruth, that old bastard who hadn’t been the worst of them, and Daisy Domergue, that bitch nobody was ever going to miss. He sounded outraged, sure, offended the way only a white boy who couldn’t believe a black man ever had the gall to fight back could sound, but it was mixed with a kind of reluctant, grudging admiration. Both those things were still in his voice now, wrapped up in a convoluted, conflicted bow that Marquis so liked to pull at to make it even tighter.

“Now I grant you, it ain’t 30,000$ anymore we’re talkin’ about, not like back in the days, but I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but I’d goddamn well _pay_ for the honour of bringing that black son of a bitch to justice for what he done, not just to them white boys back in Wellenbeck, fightin’ for what they believed in when all he was fightin’ for was his own damn hide, but for all them other white boys who came to collect that bounty.”

Approving mumbling went through the men at Mannix’s table. Marquis had to do his best not to chuckle. He’d left the uniform in the little cabin outside of town they were staying at, had exchanged it for some nondescript clothes and a ratty hat that made him look like a farmhand. Not much of a disguise, but then nobody was paying him any mind. The half dozen men who were in the saloon, plus the innkeeper, seemed as good as transfixed by Chris Mannix’s yapping. Much as Marquis hated admitting that that big mouth was good for anything other than sucking his cock, he had to give it to Mannix that he knew how to play a crowd. Of course, it probably helped that most of the bullshit that left his mouth was technically true. More or less.

“If you’re that keen to kill the nigger, why don’t you go ‘n do it yourself?”

Marquis allowed himself a glance over at the table, picking out the speaker and making a note to himself to shoot that one in the stomach. Or maybe the crotch. He knew from experience just how pleasant that was.

“Well, my friend, that is in fact what I’m planning to do,” Mannix went on without missing a beat, but then this was sure as hell not the first time he was having this kind of conversation. One of these days Marquis would have to shoot him in the gut, too, but not today. “However, I am quite attached to my head and don’t fancy getting it blown off by a man who’s made himself something of a reputation for killing people who are foolhardy enough to go after him all on their lonesome.”

Out of the corner of his eyes Marquis saw Mannix shift, gaze studiously fixed on the table for a moment, as if he had to keep himself from glancing over at Marquis. They’d both known it was a stupid idea for Marquis to even be here while Mannix baited the prey, but it had seemed like far too much fun to pass up on. And Marquis had no regrets. Mannix’s jabbering could be downright entertaining at times, especially when it wasn’t directed at him. He knew what it was that had Mannix all uncomfortable for a moment, thinking about what Marquis liked to do to all those white boys right before he blew their heads off.

“So when I heard that you gentlemen were in town, I thought to myself, ‘now there’s the kind of men you’d want by your side when you go after _the_ Major Marquis Warren’,” Mannix went on after an uncharacteristically long pause. Bit unsubtle there, but then unsubtle and overly enthusiastic was Mannix’s entire personality – or persona, maybe, because Marquis still hadn’t completely figured out how much of Mannix’s bullshit was deliberate and how much was just an unfortunate but occasionally useful accident. Either way, it seemed to work for him, because there was barely a blink of suspicion before the men started asking questions about the exact location and layout of the cabin and how Mannix could be sure it was really Major Marquis Warren – “the very same, I tell you, the one with the head on them posters!”–, and nary a thought was wasted on how damn convenient it was for Major Marquis Warren and the Billy Scattam gang to be in the same town in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming. The Billy Scattam gang that had been holed up in said town for weeks since they’d robbed a post coach, drinking and whoring away their money and making it pretty damn inconvenient for a pair of bounty hunters to take them down without having to start shooting in the middle of town. Which might have been entertaining, in Marquis’s opinion, but also the kind of thing that quickly put a man on the other end of a bounty hunter’s contract. Again.

Marquis took his leave soon after – left a few coins on the table and slunk out just as they were starting to plan what to do with his corpse, and there were some things a man didn’t need to hear even when he knew it wasn’t going to happen. That and he thought it better to double-check everything was ready up at the cabin. They’d spent the previous day setting some traps, making sure the cabin was really only accessible from one direction, and one that put them right in front of Marquis’s pistols from inside the window. And sure, he couldn’t kill six men before they could get a shot off at him, but after all Chris Mannix had to earn his keep with more than just his mouth, too. Whatever else his murderous bastard of a father had taught him – most of which Marquis would gladly shoot either of them for on any given day of the week –, he’d also made sure his youngest was more than just decent with a gun.

Things being what they were, of course their plan didn’t go off entirely without a hitch, because when did the world ever do Marquis the favour of making things easy for him? They were still outnumbered three to one, and Billy Scattam himself at least was either one hell of a fighter or just the luckiest man alive. By the time he and his gang lay scattered and bloody on the ground – dead except for the one Marquis had promised a gut wound to, who was screaming so loudly it even drowned out Mannix’s cursing – Mannix was holding his head as if trying to keep the blood in.

He didn’t keel over, though, and Marquis decided not to think too hard about the flicker of relief he felt at that. No man who’d been properly shot in the head would be swearing this much. Marquis left the cabin and went over to him, maybe a little bit faster than he usually would have, and by the time he got close enough to hear Mannix rather than the dying man’s screams, he was in the middle of an angry rant.

“ – was a little bit worried about you shooting me, by accident or just by damn malice, but I didn’t think that fucking maniac was going to try and brain me with a rock, Jesus Christ! That just ain’t fuckin’ polite!” He kicked the late Billy Scattam – whom they might have to clean up a little bit before claiming the bounty because Mannix had shot him in the throat at close range – and then cursed some more when he almost lost his balance. Marquis grabbed him by the arm. It occurred to him too late that it might have been a lot funnier to watch Chris Mannix fall on his skinny ass.

The touch seemed to put a sudden end to Mannix’s nervous agitation. He stilled and looked up at Marquis. His eyes were wide in his blood-splattered face, and the contrast made them look impossibly green. He did have damn pretty eyes, Chris Mannix did. Even prettier when he had this much blood on his face and his fingers still curled around his gun, all ready and greedy for another kill. He stared at Marquis and blinked slowly, and then he holstered the gun, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“You keep yeehawing like that, Chris Mannix, we won’t even have to ride over to the next town to get the Marshals, they’ll show up themselves to see what the racket is about,” Marquis said. He cupped Mannix’s chin, and whereas the hand on his arm had made Mannix go still, this particular touch made him tense up like a drawn string, holding perfectly still until a shiver of anticipation went through him. Not a lot of times that Marquis touched him like this and didn’t put his cock in Mannix’s mouth just moments later, and there were few things that got Mannix going as that. Marquis couldn’t say he saw the appeal, but from where he stood it was one of the least objectionable things Chris Mannix did.

“Don’t get too excited, white boy, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” Marquis didn’t quite know why that should keep him from fucking Mannix’s mouth anyway, and told himself it was because there was nothing more disappointing than a man passing out in the middle of sucking him off.

He left the corpses where they were lying for now, hoping they wouldn’t work up too much of a stench too quickly, and took Mannix inside. 

Mannix had gone from angry to compliant, following Marquis’s orders to sit down on the rickety table while Marquis fetched some water and a needle and thread. The wound wasn’t too bad, more a deep scratch than anything else, which was probably a good thing because Marquis’s experience with patching up holes in a man’s head instead of putting them in was rather limited.

He hadn’t bothered to clean most of the blood off Mannix’s face, just passed him the wet rag when he was done stitching him up. Mannix didn’t move, just sat there, skinny legs dangling from the table, spread enough that Marquis could stand between them comfortably. It was a good look on him, blood on that pale skin, green eyes still a little wild. Marquis cupped his chin again, his fingers as slick and sticky with blood as Mannix’s face. He watched Mannix’s lips part almost immediately. The boy was better trained than most dogs. Had been more easily trained, too, always so damn eager to please.

“I’m surprised you remembered not to shoot the bastard in the head,” Marquis said, thumb rubbing at Mannix’s skin.

“And miss out on the bounty? Some asshole hits me over the head with a rock, I at least aim to get paid for it.” Mannix sounded almost sullen. For someone with as little impulse control as he had, he was still pretty quick-thinking.

“You gonna keep whining about that little scratch?” Marquis asked. He’d put his other hand on Mannix’s thigh, groping it firmly, touching him like he owned him. He’d said that to Mannix once, while he was balls deep inside him and holding him down by his throat, and then he’d laughed about the impotent rage in his eyes. Wasn’t like that had kept Mannix from coming all over himself either, so hard he’d blacked out for a few moments after. Or maybe that had been Marquis’s hand on his throat, too. He didn’t really know or care, and Mannix hadn’t complained.

“Says the man who was sitting comfortably in an armchair waiting for me to bring the sheep to the slaughter,” Mannix grumbled, but his breath hitched when Marquis’s hand slid up further. Despite the blood loss he wasn’t much surprised to find Mannix hard – only other thing that seemed to get him going as quickly as Marquis’s dick on his tongue was shooting someone.

Marquis didn’t bother replying to that – actually participating in the conversation every time Mannix started talking would give any normal man a sore throat by the end of the week –, just rubbed his palm over Mannix’s crotch and watched him squirm, blood-smeared lips a pretty little “Oh” that Marquis rubbed his thumb over. He didn’t always bother getting Mannix off, didn’t need to half the time because Mannix couldn’t keep his hands off himself while he was sucking Marquis off or bending over for him like a cheap whore, and sometimes just refused to do it on general principle. He didn’t want Mannix to get any ideas about what this was. And the few times that he did put his hand on Mannix’s cock, it was usually after he was done himself and felt just a little bit generous.

So when Marquis unbuttoned his breeches and slipped his hand inside, Mannix gave him a suspicious look – always a little paranoid about Marquis’s intentions, and Marquis liked it that way – and opened his mouth, but before he could start yapping again, Marquis slid a blood-slick thumb between his lips. And that Mannix was used to at least, because he barely missed a beat before he started sucking, grimacing at the taste of blood on his tongue but not pulling away, because the one thing that made Chris Mannix’s company bearable was that he usually did as he was told.

He kept sucking when Marquis’s fingers closed around his cock, just as slick and sticky as his other hand – not the first time they’d been covered in blood while doing this and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the last either. Mannix kept his hands to himself, curled around the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles stood out, whiter than the skin around them. 

It was blissfully silent for a few minutes, just the sound of skin moving against skin and spit-slick lips sliding over Marquis’s finger, but then Mannix’s eyes fluttered shut when Marquis’s thumb rubbed over the tip of his dick just so. He yelped when Marquis slapped him across the face, didn’t get further than “what the hell was –” before he got a backhand on the other cheek, and then Marquis grabbed his hair hard to keep him from turning his head. 

“Keep your eyes open, white boy,” he said and yanked on Mannix’s hair, shaking him like an unruly dog.

“Yes, sir,” Mannix said immediately, his tone almost docile even as the expression on his face was still a little too wild. And then he added, “Please don’t stop, Major, sir?”

He sounded so utterly desperate that Marquis stopped moving his hand for a moment, just to watch him squirm, hands letting go of the table as if he wanted to touch Marquis and then thinking better of it before he grabbed it again. 

“Oh, come on, Major, don’t be like that, please, fuck …” And Mannix didn’t shut up again after that, kept babbling and pleading while Marquis stroked his cock again, the other hand pulling on his hair until Mannix bared his bloodied throat. He didn’t shut up either when Marquis leant in and bit the side of his neck, worrying at his skin with his teeth until Mannix’s voice broke on his next “please”. It didn’t take long after that for Mannix to come on his stomach and over Marquis’s fingers, hands still clinging to the edge of the table and his eyes still open.

Marquis ran his fingers through Mannix’s hair after that, soft on one side, caked with half-dried blood on the other, and because he was apparently having a generous day he gave Mannix a few seconds to catch his breath before he dragged him off the table by his hair and pushed him to his knees. Mannix did shut up after that.

*

“Hey, Major,” Mannix said later that night, after they’d cleaned up and dragged the corpses on a pile behind the cabin, covered with snow so they’d keep halfway fresh until the morning. They were lying in the bed they were sharing because it was the only bed in the small cabin, and because this winter was as freezing as the previous one and there was only so much blankets could do to keep a man warm. Mannix’s voice was quieter than usual, maybe from the blood loss, maybe because he was close to falling asleep, maybe because Marquis didn’t tend to go easy on his throat. 

They were stretched out in the dark, only their shoulders touching under the blankets because they usually kept a bit of distance between them up until one of them was asleep, and Mannix didn’t seem to be looking at him. Marquis only made a quiet sound in the back of his throat to acknowledge that he’d heard him.

“Did you ever get worried that I might not be lyin’ to them outlaws? That I might go through with it, use their help to get you what you deserve?”

Marquis didn’t know what he had expected Mannix to say, but it hadn’t been that. The thought should have occurred to him, out of reasonable paranoia, but somehow it hadn’t, not in any serious way. At no point during the planning, not when Mannix had brought up the idea, not when Marquis had listened to him talk half a dozen men into trying to murder him, had he thought Mannix might actually go and do it. And it didn’t have nothing to do with Mannix suddenly discovering the goodness of his heart and regretting all the things he’d done in his life to keep black people afraid and in chains, nor even with Mannix changing his mind about the righteousness of any of that. He still was, and no doubt always would be, the kind of man who deserved nothing more than a bullet to the gut and a slow death, and yet – Marquis had apparently trusted the bastard. Not just not to slit his throat in his sleep, but to pass up an honest to God opportunity to kill him and have witnesses to tell the tale.

Now of course Chris Mannix did have a twisted sense of honour, some rules his daddy had taught him that made him believe he was some kind of civilised, righteous man instead of a murderous thug, but Marquis had seen men like Chris Mannix throw their so-called code over board in a heartbeat if it meant fucking over black folk. And yet Mannix hadn’t. Didn’t even sound like he’d been tempted or regretted not doing it; more like he just couldn’t believe Marquis hadn’t accused him of it.

“I figure if you were gonna try and kill me, white boy, you had plenty of opportunities for that in the whole last year,” Marquis said eventually, like it was that simple. Like Mannix wasn’t also asking if Marquis had never worried about Mannix turning on him that whole year they’d travelled together. “Or maybe I figured you needed the money and those six are worth more than I am these days, and you couldn’t have taken them down on your own.”

It wasn’t the truth or at least not all of it and Marquis knew it, and judging by the look Mannix gave him now – his eyes too clever, too bright even in the dim moonlight that fell in through the cracks in the cabin’s walls – he knew it, too. But for once in his life, Chris Mannix kept his mouth shut.

Because the truth was that Mannix hadn’t tried to shoot him in the back for the same reason Marquis hadn’t let him bleed out in the dirt and kept the bounty for the Billy Scattam gang to himself instead of splitting it in half, and since neither of them liked that truth very much, the one thing they could quietly agree on was to leave it unspoken.


End file.
